


Cold is the Night

by asilentherald



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asilentherald/pseuds/asilentherald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana is out to hurt Arthur by hurting someone she knows he loves dearly: Gwen. Only, Merlin convinces her to take him instead, to save his friend and his mother. What follow are lonely months of allegedly doing what's right, weeks of frustration and confusion, days of slow comprehension, hours of drinking away the sadness--and it all feels like one long, cold night for Merlin and Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold is the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to M for dealing with my sporadic fic writing/for betaing this! :)
> 
> Title comes from the song of the same name by The Oh Hello's.

Merlin was fuming by the time he returned to his room. Gaius was nowhere to be found; it was not quite dinner yet, so he assumed he was finishing up his rounds. Merlin let the door slam loudly for once and sat heavily on his bed. The string of curses and stupid insults aimed at Arthur had run dry between their argument ending and his arriving at his bed.

There was a note on his desk. It was sealed, the wax unbroken, and addressed to him. His heart skipped when he recognized the handwriting as Gwen’s—his dear friend, Gwen, whom he had not seen for many months now. Most of his anger stepped aside, though not quite dissipating, as he sat back down on the bed and opened it.

He read through it twice before the letter fluttered lamely to the ground. It could have crashed on the floorboards and Merlin would not have heard it over the din of the blood rushing in his ears. He rose and started pacing. He grabbed at clothes and books and threw them on the bed, but there was no rhyme or reason to it all.

He jumped up to the window; it was dark, but not so dark that he could not make it out of Camelot and make headway before needing to stop to sleep.

_I have to go._

Merlin threw every article of clothing he could find into his backpack along with, well, nearly everything else he owned. His room looked bare, stripped of his mess and his blanket.

He left a hasty note to Gaius, and wrote one out to Arthur. There was no time, though, to run it to Arthur’s chambers on the other side of the castle. So he left it with Gaius and added for Gaius to get it to him.

Then, Merlin ran.

 

\---

 

Arthur woke late the next morning. Very late, in fact. He woke to the sound of banging on his door, followed by Sir Leon entering his room and stopping short. 

“You’re still asleep,” he said. 

“Merlin’s going to have to answer for this,” Arthur said, dragging himself out of bed. He looked around. His chambers were in the exact same state as he had found them after dinner, when Merlin had failed to appear to prepare him for bed.

Leon looked confused.

“Go start the men with the usual exercises. Put Gwaine and Percival with the new recruits; you and Elyan can work with the rest. I’ll be there shortly,” Arthur said.

“Of course,” he said with a short bow. Leon closed the door quietly behind him.

Arthur dressed slowly, growing more and more annoyed with Merlin’s absence with every passing moment.

“Where the hell is he?” he muttered. Once he got his tunic and trousers on, Arthur set off at a frightening pace for Gaius’s chambers. He threw the door open entirely intent on shouting for Merlin to get his lazy arse out of bed—at very least berating him for going to the tavern _again_ —but he did not expect to find Gaius seated by his workbench, staring at the door. He looked hopeful before he realized it was Arthur; his face fell ever so slightly.

“Where is he?” Arthur demanded.

“Merlin—”

Arthur marched up the steps and shoved the door to Merlin’s room open roughly.

“Get up, Mer—what the—?”

The room was empty, stripped bare. Every single one of Merlin’s belongings was gone. It did not look as though Merlin had ever even lived there. Gaius entered the room slowly and sat down on the bed.

“He was gone last night when I returned from the lower town,” he said. The old man’s voice was strangely unsteady. “Normally I would not worry so much, but he left only these,” he said, holding up two folded scraps of paper. Gaius handed one to him with his name on it.

_Arthur_

_I had to go. I’m sorry._

_-Merlin_

Arthur stared. “What’s the meaning of this? What’s he on about?”

“He’s gone, my lord,” Gaius said, shaking his head. “A message came for him yesterday. I did not read it. Whatever it was, it’s made him leave.”

“Are you certain it was the message?” Arthur asked. He felt shaky as soon as he remembered the last things he had told Merlin.

He had not banished him _per se_ but he had told him to get out of his sight and that he did not want to see his ugly face for as long as possible; that his opinion was worth nothing to him, because what could _Merlin_ know it meant to be a king and to carry the weight of a kingdom? It had started out with Arthur sulking over Guinevere’s absence, according to Merlin—which was _not_ true; Gwen left months ago with Lancelot as part of an amicable banishment, so enough time had passed for Arthur to cope and move on, no matter how fixated Merlin was on the idea of him marrying Gwen—and Merlin saying something improper and ridiculous, but it had ended with the same problem: on some matters, at some times, in spite of their closeness, they did not see eye to eye.

Arthur couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about, only that Merlin had left in a huff, red in the face and tense. It worried him, now, and it must have shown.

“If you quarreled, it would not be the first time, my lord,” Gaius said knowingly. “Merlin’s far too loyal to you to leave because of a few harsh words.”

“Yes, but—I told—it doesn’t matter. He’ll be back,” Arthur said. He pocketed the note. “Was yours any more enlightening?” 

Gaius shook his head.

“He only said he was leaving, and that he was sorry.”

So it was the same, then.

“We’ll give him a bit of time. He’ll come crawling back,” Arthur said with as wide a grin as he could muster. “We’ll send out a patrol to drag him home if he’s not back in a few days.”

“Thank you."

He nodded and left the physician’s chambers. There were a million and a half things to do, all of a sudden, and it seemed ten times worse without Merlin around. So Arthur threw himself into training the knights, dealing with the councilmembers, attending to issues brought forth by the citizens of Camelot.

Several days passed and Arthur was not the least bit worried about Merlin’s continued absence. Not at all. Gwaine cornered him after training one day and asked after Merlin. He seemed equally, if not more, concerned.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Arthur growled, sidestepping. “Merlin’s gone off. He’ll be back.”

“Are you sure?” Gwaine asked. “It’s not like him to up and leave without a word.”

“He _will_ be back,” Arthur said. “If he’s not by tomorrow, you can lead the patrol that searches for him.”

Gwaine looked satisfied enough at that, but Arthur still couldn’t stand his overly fond streak regarding Merlin.

At the end of a council meeting that day, Leon brought in a young man covered in dirt with blood caked all over his head. The bruising around his right eye was so profound Arthur was certain the man could not see out of it. Gaius looked ready to pounce on the man with his bandages and poultices.

“What happened?” Arthur asked.

“We were attacked, my lord,” he choked out. “She… came from the shadows. She burned _everything_.”

“Who did?”

“The sorceress. Morgana Pendragon.”

Arthur sat up. He hated hearing her name, especially like this. It only made him angry and sad and confused.

“What did she want?”

“I don’t know,” he shook his head vigorously.

“It’s alright. Just tell us what happened, as much as you can.”

The man was in tears now, struggling to remain composed and coherent.

“Most of us were able to gather and fortify against her. We kept for a few houses in the middle of our town, stayed together. We didn’t know what else to do,” he said. He paused to catch his breath. “We were all in there, the whole town gathered in a few homes while everything else around us burned. We thought she would leave us be, after four days like this. One or two of us made it out, but I doubt they made it far.”

He swallowed dryly. One of the servants handed him a cup of water. He drank loudly and messily, but no one thought ill of him for it.

“She, uh. She broke through, just a day or so ago, just as I got out to run for help. That’s why she didn’t see me. Then… she burned those buildings down, too, with everyone in them. My sisters—my father—everyone is gone, now,” the man sobbed. “She’s still out there, my lord. Please. You must do something. My own king refuses to help us.”

“Your king? Are you not from Camelot?”

He shook his head. “No, my lord. My village lies just within Lot’s kingdom.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Gaius still.

“What is the name of your village?”

“It was called Ealdor, my lord, but it is nothing but ashes now.”

 

\---

 

Morgana looked amused, which was bad in Merlin’s opinion, as she ambled to where they were cornered against the wall of Merlin’s childhood home. He kept Gwen and his mother behind him, his arms spread wide. Morgana laughed.

“Come now, Merlin, I only want to talk,” she said, still laughing, though it did not meet her dead, cold eyes. “Step aside.”

“Let them go, Morgana. Take me. Just let Gwen and my mother go,” he said steadily.

“Why would I do that? I’ve missed my maid.”

“You don’t want to hurt us all.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“You want to hurt Arthur. Why make things more complicated?” Merlin said. She seemed to consider his words briefly.

“That’s why I’m here for _her_ ,” she said, looking straight past Merlin at Gwen.

“I haven’t seen Arthur in months,” Gwen said. “We parted a long time ago, and not on the best terms, Morgana.”

She smiled smugly.

“Perhaps, but he still misses you, I’m sure. I know my dear brother well.”

“Maybe not,” Merlin said before he could stop himself. His mouth was moving faster than his brain, as always. “Arthur’s moved on.”

“You’re lying.”

“Gwen is in his past. I swear it. You would hurt him, but it would hurt more if you took me.”

“Merlin, what—?” Gwen hissed. He elbowed her and she shut her mouth. Hunith moaned softly. Her burns were terrible and infections threatened to set in. She leaned more heavily against Merlin’s back and gripped his shoulder. Merlin held his desperate resolve, for her sake. Her only hope was if he could get Gwen to take her back to Camelot to Gaius.

The fires around them had not died down, not even a little over the course of the week. Morgana glowed in the harsh light.

“Do you mean to say,” Morgana said, starting to laugh in disbelief, “that my brother beds you now? That you own his heart?”

Gwen held her breath behind Merlin. He nodded.

“We’ve been lovers for some time now,” Merlin said almost clinically. The words hurt in his mouth—he wanted them to be truth. He acknowledged it on some deeply buried level of consciousness that only spoke in his dreams. To say it so frankly—it was difficult, and it brought a strong blush to his face, but it was necessary. “You asked me once why I’m so loyal to him. There’s your answer.”

“Oh, dear, it’s not your love I doubt, Merlin. I don’t believe Arthur would love you.”

Her words cut, but he did not show it. Morgana was staring, calculating, elaborating.

“He does,” he insisted. “I swear!”

“It’s true,” Gwen blurted. “Before—before Lancelot came back and I left with him, when Arthur and I were considering marriage, I spoke to him. I was worried his affections were divided.”

Merlin stilled. He had no idea if this was truth or not—Gwen clearly had figured out what he was doing—but he did remember Gwen leaving Arthur’s chambers late one night and he never learned about what they had spoken or what they had done. It was none of his damn business, according to Arthur, though he had smiled like a besotted fool through his customary scowl like he usually did after spending time with Gwen.

“It’s part of why I went to Lancelot,” Gwen continued. “Arthur’s been in love with Merlin for a very long time, even if he’s only just realized it now.”

Morgana considered her words. A house crumbled behind her and fire burst into the sky. Merlin yearned to put it all out with his magic—it would have been so easy to save his little town, if things had been different.

“They can go.”

Merlin did not lower his arms. He did not move.

“I want to see them out of the fire. Then… you can have me,” Merlin said.

“Go. I’ll be waiting.”

She lowered the wall of fire just enough for Merlin carrying his mother to pass through unscathed. Gwen carried her and Hunith’s bags out of the fire out to the forest around Ealdor. Merlin set her on the ground gently and fought the urge to give in to the tears and panic creeping up the back of his throat.

He dug through his mother’s pack and started pulling out bundles of herbs. He rattled off instructions to Gwen on how to put together a paste that would help with the burns. Gwen was lucky to have been with Merlin when the worst of the fire took place.

“Merlin—,” Gwen started.

“See if you can find my horse. I left her out by the brook,” Merlin said, wiping his nose. He pushed hair out of his mother’s face and stood up. Gwen stood as well. “Someone’s probably taken her by now.”

“We’ll find something,” Gwen said. “I’ll get Arthur.”

“Tell him—just tell him I’m sorry, okay? I should’ve gone to him when you wrote. I was just so angry—”

“At him or Morgana?”

“Both,” Merlin admitted. “Tell him that, will you? And… be happy, Gwen. You deserve that.”

“You’re not going to die, Merlin,” she stated. The quiver in her voice bespoke her fear. Merlin’s heart echoed it; whether by death or not, something deep within him told him that he would not see his friends for a long time.

Merlin hugged her tightly and helped his mother to her feet. He quietly said his goodbyes and a few whispered spells to help her along. Gwen and Hunith set off. Merlin waved each time Gwen looked back. He sent as many protective spells as possible on their heels.

“Merlin.”

He turned. Morgana was waiting.

“Will you make this easy?” she asked, circling around him like a bird of prey. Merlin stood stiffly. “Or will I need to drag you?”

“I’ll walk.”

Morgana’s eyes glowed gold and ropes appeared around Merlin’s wrists. The other end settled in Morgana’s hands. He pulled, but she was stronger. Her magic, out on display, made her stronger. He felt an angry growl deep in his chest, but he tamped it down. Morgana started walking, and he followed.

 

\---

 

“Arthur!”

Arthur turned around in his saddle. _Gwen_.

He called out to her. She looked elated. Arthur felt happy to see her until he remembered why they were so close to the Camelot’s border with Lot’s kingdom.

She was hobbling down the steep hill to the left of the path, the mid-morning sunlight streaming out behind her, with someone Arthur did not recognize immediately. Whoever it was looked half-dead and was entirely covered in burns and red skin. Leon was on the ground already and waiting to help Gwen off the hill. Arthur dismounted.

“Arthur, you must go to Ealdor,” Gwen said without preamble. “Morgana—”

“We’re on our way now,” Arthur said. He let Gwen come close and he hugged her. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Where’s Gaius?” she asked.

“Camelot. What—”

“That’s _Hunith_ , Arthur. Merlin’s mother.”

Oh. _Oh._ Arthur turned. Leon was barely holding her up. Her face was flushed with fever and she was barely conscious. He could not look at the state of her skin without feeling ill.

“Take her back to Gaius,” he told him. Arthur turned to Gwen.

“She has him,” she said miserably. “He—oh, Merlin. He always does something like this.”

“Do what? Guinevere, just tell me!”

“He lied to Morgana. She wanted me,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “She wanted to hurt you as badly as possible, so she wanted to take me and do awful things. I don’t know what. But Merlin—he lied, we convinced her taking _him_ would hurt you more, so that I could get his mother out! And it worked. Now we have to save him. Arthur. Say something!”

“Did she say anything about where she wanted to take you?”

Gwen shook her head. “I haven’t a clue. Oh, god, if Merlin dies because of me—”

“He won’t die. He can’t. He—we’ll get him back.”

Arthur did not sound remotely near as certain as he sounded, and he did not sound all that convincing. Gwen looked ready to cry again. Elyan appeared and drew her away, leaving Arthur alone with his horse. Slowly, Gwen’s words started to make sense in his head and the sheer horror of what had transpired and what could yet happen became clear.

“Arthur?”

Gwaine was at his shoulder.

“What now?”

“If you’re not leaving now, I’m going without you lot,” Gwaine announced. He mounted his horse and started cantering away. Arthur climbed into his own saddle and took off at a gallop, leaving the rest of his knights in the dust.

It did not take long to come to the hills over Ealdor and see the smoldering wooden buildings and crisp bodies left carelessly on the dirt roads. He spotted Hunith’s house still mostly intact. The town was deserted, but he went inside anyway. It was as though she had left off in the middle of baking bread, going by the mess of dough on the counter. In the corner near an unused pallet was Merlin’s pack. Arthur tore it open; it held everything Merlin owned, clothes and books and all. These, at least, did not smell like fire and smoke.

“Damn it, Merlin,” Arthur muttered, tossing the pack aside. Seeing all his things together in one bag so far from home hurt in ways Arthur did not anticipate.

One of his stupid neckerchiefs fell out. Arthur grabbed it, contemplated replacing it, but decided Merlin would probably want a fresh one once they found him. So he put it in his pocket and left the hut.

The other knights were only just arriving. Arthur walked through the town. Morgana had made several layers of fiery rings around the central few houses. The villagers had been trapped. There had been little hope. The wind blew scraps of a scorched piece of cloth into his face. A whole pile of bodies within one of the structural remains reeked of burnt flesh. Some still had intact eyeballs, but for most, the sockets were empty or oozing fluids of varying colors and consistencies. Pieces of bodies were scattered across the inner streets. His stomach turned and nearly evicted his scant breakfast.

Arthur turned away from the worst of his sister’s handiwork. For the thousandth time he wondered where he had gone wrong, how Morgana had become so cold and cruel when she had once been so kind. The wind blew the strong smell of rotting corpses past Arthur’s nose. He could not escape it, it seemed.

“Sire! There’s a trail,” shouted Elyan. Gwen was with the other knights hovering by the woods.

“This is where I last saw him,” she said, shakily crossing her arms.

“Morgana led him away from here,” said Leon, following the tracks. “There was some struggle, but not very much. Merlin looks like he went willingly. And—they go on.”

“Let’s move,” Arthur said.

He twisted his fingers around the neckerchief in his pocket as they followed the tracks along the ridge on the hill until they were far away from Ealdor and night was closing in on them. Arthur pushed until the knights forced him to stop.

“We can’t stop now,” he said stubbornly.

“Arthur… we’ll lose track of the trail if we go on,” she said. “Come. Sleep.”

“We won’t lose him,” Arthur said more to himself than anyone else. “He’s _my_ manservant.”

“I know. We know,” said Gwen sadly. “The food’s getting cold.”

Arthur followed her. He didn’t hear a damn thing they said around the fire that night. Merlin’s absence was more irritating than ever, if only because of the gnawing, almost painful anxiety it gave him, and the pitying looks the knights gave him. Arthur took the first watch, and then refused to give it up for the whole night, for fear that the anxieties would turn into nightmares, and Arthur would wake to find them realities.

 

\---

 

“Are you thirsty?” Morgana asked without turning around.

“Nope.”

“Are you sure? Are you worried I’ll poison you?”

Merlin bristled. She pulled hard on the ropes. He landed on his knees.

“You deserve it, after all,” Morgana said, looking down at him. She kicked him in the stomach. Merlin curled over, gasping.

“It was the only way,” he said. She kicked again, harder.

“You chose Arthur. You’ll always choose him,” she sneered. “At least your misguided loyalty makes some sense now.”

“He’s a good king. He’ll be great one day.”

“He’s like Uther,” she spat. “He’s great for nothing but murdering innocent people guilty only of being different. Don’t you see that?”

“Arthur’s going to change that,” Merlin said, shaking his head. “I believe in him.”

“You’re wrong,” she said. “You may love him, or just lie with him, but you’ll be disappointed, Merlin. Arthur will always disappoint you.”

She pulled him to his feet. When he straightened out, he coughed and tasted blood in his mouth. Morgana dragged him along down a steep hill. Merlin struggled with the ropes again, but it was no use, not without his magic. He let her pull him further, buying time. The more space he put between them and Camelot, the easier and safer it would be to make his move.

Even after everything, he blamed himself for the monster she had become. Killing her would not change the way she had changed, that he had been the catalyst, even if she had been well on her way to darkness before he poisoned her and sent her right into Morgause’s arms. If Merlin could avoid killing, even Morgana, he would; but if she forced him to use his magic to defend himself, Merlin would not hesitate to cut her down.

They came upon the shores of the lake of Avalon. Merlin’s breath caught. It was as beautiful and hauntingly empty as ever. The life of the place was below the waters, within the air, on the distant fog-shrouded isle—all far from their prying eyes. All of its power called to his magic.

“Do you truly believe Arthur will change Camelot?” she asked. She sounded almost curious rather than scathing. 

“I do,” Merlin said. They looked out at the calm waters.

“Maybe you agree with him. Maybe you think people like me deserve what Uther did.”

“No! I don’t!”

“You’re a charming liar, Merlin,” Morgana said. He heard a blade unsheathe. Merlin froze. “But that doesn’t change what you are.”

The blade pierced his back. The pain was terrible and reduced him to his knees. The water rose to his hips. The spot around the rigid blade was hot and wet; the pain radiated, spreading quickly. The water around him was stained dark red. Merlin’s whole body shook and his vision clouded. He strained to look up at Morgana. Her pale, pale face was smiling down at him without a trace of warmth in her cold eyes. She took him by the back of his shirt and dragged him out into the open water. He could not move; if she let go, Merlin was almost certain he would drown.

“Arthur will suffer for what he’s done.”

“He’s done _nothing_.”

“Precisely,” Morgana said. “Knowing injustice and refusing to do anything about it—he’s no better than Uther lighting the pyres. He’s lit a few pyres himself, but that was before you came to Camelot and met your precious prince.”

Morgana lowered the blade to his wrist and started to press. She drew a line of blood.

“He’ll see you again, but only in pieces. If he loves you or only beds you—it doesn’t matter. You’re part of him,” she said. She raised the knife and bore down. She hit an invisible barrier. When she looked at Merlin and saw his eyes, the knife fell into the water. “You—you can’t. No.”

She released him and stumbled backward. Merlin dropped like a stone. The magic of the place healed him halfway, once he let it, and he rose from the water. Morgana was scrambling onto shore. She pulled out another knife. Her eyes blazed furiously.

“This is better,” she said, laughing madly. “You, a sorcerer? Always at Arthur’s side—you’ve deluded yourself! You’ve fooled—ha! Merlin, you poor _fool_ —he will _never_ love you now, not if you’re like me!”

“He still loves you, Morgana; he just doesn’t understand what happened,” Merlin said. He walked up through the shallow waters until they were eye to eye, “And someday, he will understand.”

For a brief moment, her madness subsided and gave way to lucidity.

“That’s on you. All of that.”

Her eyes glowed gold and her magic hit him like a wall. Merlin flew back into the water. Under the surface he blearily watched Morgana’s skirts fan out and twist around her ankles. Merlin clenched his magic there and dragged her down. He emerged, and she was floundering, but she still threw the knife. He dodged it easily, sighing.

“Fight me, Merlin,” she said with a mocking lilt to her voice. “Or do you feel shame for your magic?”

“I can’t—I don’t. It’s all I am,” he said, shaking his head. Merlin stood over her. The waters started rising up again. The wound on his back stung and throbbed, but he gritted his teeth and looked down at her.

“Your beloved king will let you burn, then.”

Merlin let the lake rise until Morgana was neck-deep where she was constrained on the bed of the lake. She fought hard with her magic, writhing against his own magic, but Merlin was far stronger now.

He knelt next to Morgana and pulled her down under the water. He let her remain. He held her in his arms once more, letting her scratch and claw at him in an incredibly human way, until her body, at last, relaxed. The struggle—the life, the passion, the bitterness—leaked out of her as though through a tiny puncture in the lung. She was still pale and cold when Merlin dragged her out of the water onto the sand, but she looked peaceful now. The waters had healed her, too.

Merlin closed her eyes and let his magic release the tide.

It was over.

When he stood fully upright and finally exhaled, the wound on his back opened up again. His knees hit the sand, and the pain washed over him. Merlin drifted into unconsciousness easily, his hand lying close to Morgana’s.

 

\---

 

The knights were all silent with Arthur and Gwen at the head. They said very little. All that Arthur could tolerate were announcements of changes on the trail, or possible signs of Merlin. Gwen was soft and understanding through it all.

“It’s okay, you know,” she said quietly. “You’ve loved him for a long time.”

“I’ve told you; it’s not like that,” Arthur insisted.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“The way I was sure I didn’t have feelings for Lancelot anymore?” Gwen asked. Her question stung, but Arthur held his ground.

“That was different.”

“Hardly,” she smiled. “Maybe you don’t see it yet, but Merlin’s special, and he’s good for you. He’s made you better—he’s made all of us better, really. Can’t you admit that?”

“Hmm. That’d mean giving him a compliment, so, no.”

Gwen shook her head.

“He’s a massive idiot,” Arthur said, “and he’s too brave for someone who doesn’t know one end of a sword from the other. I… suppose he has his redeeming qualities, but Merlin? Make us better? Are you sure you haven’t been listening to too many of his fairy tales?”

“No, since I’ve been in exile for nearly a year now,” she said coolly. She smiled. “Even after all this time, you’re the same.”

“Not quite.”

“We’ll find him, Arthur. Whatever’s on your mind right now, you’ll get to tell him in person.”

“Was he… was he still cross with me?” Arthur asked. He sounded tentative, almost ashamed.

“He told me you’d fought,” Gwen said with a fond smile. “Last thing he told me was to tell you he was sorry.”

Arthur shook his head. “That’s the problem, then. He never did anything he needed to apologize for. Come on. We’re losing time.”

Arthur took off at a gallop, following the straight path down through the trees overlooking a large, clear lake. Gwen watched him go and could not help but feel sadness, remembering the look of finality on Merlin’s face when she’d parted with him. She desperately hoped Merlin had been wrong.

 

\---

 

He woke slowly, and when he did, everything was exactly the same, except for the waters drawn high around him and Morgana. Her long hair drifted out around them; his arm was tangled within it. His back was being knitted back together by strange little spirits. Merlin thanked them and rose slowly. His joints ached.

Merlin saw the little boat parked along the flora down the shore. He placed Morgana in the boat. He felt nothing but relief when he whispered the spell and set it afire. He pushed it out into the water, digging his feet into the silt, and stood back to watch it go.

When he turned around, Arthur and his knights were there, watching. His heart stuttered to a stop. They had seen his magic. They saw him there on the water with gold in his eyes and fire on his fingers.

 _He will_ never _love you now, not if you’re like me._

He saw exactly that in Arthur’s shocked eyes, which were clearly for him, not for his dead sister or her blood on his hands. Merlin saw the light of relief be replaced by something far more frightening and incomprehensible. The fire from the boat reflected in his eyes, and for a moment Merlin saw himself in the fire instead, on the pyre in the courtyard at Camelot. He almost convinced himself it would not happen, that everything he did was enough to prevent Arthur from needing to make the call. But the law was the law; Arthur would abide by it, now that so many had seen. He would have to stand by and watch him burn with that very same look on his face.

Every horrifying thought made his heart beat faster, as though he had just run the distance from Ealdor to the lake. His muscles jumped, and his joints kept aching, begging for movement. It made no sense.

Arthur moved toward him, so Merlin did the only thing he could with fire beating at his back and a sword behind drawn before him: he ran until he heard nothing but his heart beating and the crunch of leaves and branches and earth under his feet, until the sun rose and fell twice.

When he stopped, the tears stopped, too, and he could finally breathe again, he found that air would never be enough, not after seeing the look on Arthur’s face. He’d have given up all the air in his lungs, even the world, to erase what had happened, but that wouldn’t be possible.

So Merlin walked and walked and walked, putting Camelot as far behind him as possible. 

 

* * *

 

Arthur had been dreading this, but there was no way to avoid it now. Their party had returned that morning, and he had called an emergency council meeting. Now that it was over, he had no choice but to seek out Gaius. 

He was in his chambers laughing quietly beside Hunith, who was stretched out on a table and swathed in white linen. She looked happy enough, if damaged and battered. The fumes of the fires lingered around her, though. His insides churned at the terrible smell that didn’t seem to want to leave him. Arthur cleared his throat and they both looked up. Both of their smiles slowly fell before they hastily salvaged them. Arthur almost grinned; the family resemblance was plain.

“Sire,” Gaius said, standing.

“Gaius, Hunith,” Arthur nodded. He took Hunith’s bandaged hand. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve felt better,” she said grimly. “I’m in good hands.”

“You are. I wanted you to know you’re welcome to stay here in Camelot as long as you need to or want to; I can arrange for you to acquire a house in the lower town if you’d rather be there than here, once you recover.”

“That’s very generous,” Gaius said. The wariness in his voice was telling; Gaius was too perceptive for his own good.

“Where’s Merlin?” Hunith asked. Her eyes were unfocused from the medicines or the sheer pain, but they were still a little red.

“Merlin—,” Arthur’s voice caught unexpectedly. Gaius looked sharply at him.

“Sire. What happened?”

“Morgana is dead,” he said. “Merlin killed her.”

Gaius’s face went slack with shock.

“He—Merlin is a sorcerer, though I doubt that is news to either of you,” Arthur said stiffly. He turned away from them. Their stares were too judging, too intense. He felt as though he was a foolish, stupid boy under his father’s reprimanding hand once more. “We saw him as he sent Morgana off. He fled.”

“He’s not dead?” Hunith whispered.

“No. I would never—I promise you, we will find him,” Arthur said, turning toward Hunith again. She looked horrified. “He’ll be safe. No harm will come to him.”

“Merlin will not return to Camelot so long as the old laws hold,” Gaius said. The coldness in his voice was jarring.

“I can’t change them overnight,” Arthur said, frustrated. The council had already told him as much repeatedly. “Tell me if you hear from him. Please. I want to speak to him, if I can.”

“Merlin—”

“I don’t give a damn what Merlin will or won’t do; I’m still his king. I’m—he’s my _friend._ He should listen to me, for once in his life.”

Arthur failed at reading Gaius’s expression miserably. He made for the door.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Hunith said quietly. He looked over his shoulder once, but he could not bring himself to smile. He hardly had the strength to put one foot in front of the other, but Arthur forced himself to do that much at least.

His weariness transformed into angry energy. He cursed Merlin under his breath all the way back to his chambers. No servant dared look at him. Arthur thought he saw Gwen giving him a pitying look from across the courtyard. He was intent on combing through the old laws on magic thoroughly when he returned to his chambers—Arthur was determined enough to stay up all night doing it if it would expedite the council’s reviewing process. They had been wary enough of his vague non-reasons; Arthur was determined to show them just how serious he was about this.

It had been a long time coming, after all.

The moment he threw the doors open, Arthur started to shout Merlin’s name before he could even think about stopping himself. He took one look at his pristine chambers and knew everything was wrong and out of place and there was no trace of Merlin left in there. It made Arthur weak at knees and his chest clench in fear.

He realized, finally, as he slid down the rough wall to sit on the floor next to the door, that he might never see Merlin again, and that he was entirely unprepared for that possibility, if the way his body would not stop shaking was any indication.

 

\---

 

Merlin cursed Arthur and all of Camelot for at least an hour. He had circled back to Ealdor in search of survivors and his belongings, but everything and everyone was gone. The bodies had been cleared out. The wreckage was still there, but it would soon be covered by snow. The air was cold enough for it. In his home, each space once occupied by the same object for the eighteen years he spent there was empty, as though his mother had simply decided to relocate—and his pack was gone, too. Even his bedroll had vanished.

It was bait. He was well aware. But Merlin knew he would not be able to survive without at least some money and a blanket, so he made his way back to Camelot, traveling only at night and taking his time. He cloaked himself in magic so that the eyes of anyone who saw him would simply not be aware of his presence.

The white halls of the citadel shone in the moonlight. The air was cold there, too. His breath puffed out before his eyes as he scurried through the most unused passageways. Merlin reached Gaius’s chambers and pushed the door open slowly. Gaius was sleeping by the fire in his chair, and his mother was on the table. She looked sickly, still, but she was healing well. Merlin ducked into his room and grabbed his backpack; the contents were undisturbed.

He pressed a faint kiss to the top of his mother’s head and left before she could stir.

Merlin made it halfway to the courtyard before he had to stop and compose himself. He ached to stay, but he refused to do that to all of them—especially to Arthur. His whole body hurt as though a gaping hole had been opened in his chest just by the very thought of him.

Then, of course, Arthur appeared down the hall in his nightclothes looking sleepy and troubled.

The ache exploded within him, making him stagger and grip the wall for support, and his control started to slip. Merlin feared his spell would falter, and Arthur would see. The smart thing would have been to turn away and leave while there was distance between them. But he followed. He followed him right back to Gaius’s chambers where Arthur crept past Gaius and his mother to Merlin’s old room. He stood in the doorway staring for a long time; Merlin watched the rigid line of his spine from the bottom of the stairs. His silhouette against the moonlight burned into Merlin’s eyes.

Eventually, Arthur crossed the threshold and sank heavily onto his bed. He let his head drop into his hands and his back hunch over. He looked like a boy, not a king. He looked lost, not like he was intent on hunting Merlin down and tying him down to a stake on a pyre.

He looked like a man, just like Merlin knew him—just Arthur, upset and human and not the untouchable regent that he made himself out to be, even to Merlin, in his worst and most insecure moments. Merlin reached for him. His fingers ghosted over Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur stiffened and jumped to his feet, already in a fighting stance. He looked around the room, right through Merlin, right at the spot where his pack had been. Arthur’s eyes narrowed. Merlin watched color flood his face and his mouth form a thin, angry line, though his body relaxed from the defensive.

“Merlin,” he muttered, “you idiot.”

Merlin nearly laughed, but he held it in. Arthur took half a step toward the empty spot and toward Merlin. They were very close for that brief moment; Arthur exhaled and the air dried out Merlin’s lips.

It was torture, being so close, and knowing he could do nothing to help.

Arthur sank back onto the bed and looked around, evidently searching for something. Merlin took his chance and ran from the room. He only stopped running when he was on the other side of the Darkling Woods and the turrets of Camelot had faded into the night sky.

 

\---

 

If the way Arthur’s anger had given way to upset that first night had been enough to make him look and apparently feel physically ill, the polarity of his emotions in the following weeks drove Arthur to drink and starve, to desire constant rest and constant activity and stimulation. The entire household actively avoided him and made no secret of it. Gwen wanted to remain in Camelot for a while for his sake, following Arthur’s formal pardon of banishment, but she paid for it by receiving the brunt of the force of Arthur’s problems.

The only thing that was safe was _Merlin_  

“Perhaps… it’s time you go to bed, Arthur,” Gwen said softly, extracting the cup from Arthur’s hands. He had just finished enumerating the new threats to Camelot’s borders from the east, and grumbling about his missing manservant. Gwen was troubled.

“I’m doubling the patrols tomorrow.”

“Sending the Knights of Camelot after Merlin won’t bring him back,” she said frankly. Arthur looked up with wide eyes. She felt a pang of sadness. “He’ll feel like you’re hunting him.”

“But I’m not. He should know that. He _knows_ me, Gwen.”

She shook her head. “Things are different now,” she said.

“I shouldn’t have drawn my sword on him,” Arthur said. “I made a horrible mistake. I scared him off.”

“You can’t go on like this, Arthur. You’re barely functioning. Merlin will come back when he’s ready,” she said coolly, standing up and taking his tray.

“You don’t need to do that,” he said, waving his heavy hand at the tray and knocking it against the edge.

“I want to help. Now, get ready for bed. It’s been a long day.”

She eased Arthur out of the chair and watched him stumble over to the bed and fall into the pillows on top of the sheets and his nightclothes. Gwen blew out all the candles and closed the door behind her quietly. She returned the tray to the kitchens and retreated to her home. She took up a sheet of paper and began to write.

 

\---

 

“Merlin!”

He stuck his head out the window.

“Gwen’s written,” Lancelot beamed from the garden, waving a weathered piece of parchment. Merlin bounded down the stairs and out into the bright sunlight. The air was crisp but nowhere near as cold as it had been in Camelot. Merlin definitely preferred it here.

“What’s she saying?” he asked.

“Your mother’s recovering well,” Lancelot read. “Gaius has his hands full with a swelling sickness in the lower town.”

Merlin’s gut twisted with guilt, but he nodded for Lancelot to continue.

“There are some invaders at the border on the east,” he went on. “Arthur’s doubling patrol—ah, that’s—never mind.”

“He’s doing that for me, isn’t he?” Merlin asked flatly. Lancelot looked up sheepishly.

“He’s desperate, Merlin. He won’t hurt you,” he said as though he had never told Merlin this before. It had been a long two months so far. “Can’t you forgive Arthur?”

“What’s to forgive? I should be apologizing.”

“Merlin—”

“Let it go, Lance. I messed up. If I’d been more careful, he wouldn’t have seen and he’d be pelting me with helmets or something right now,” Merlin said. “That’s the fact.”

“You were half-dead. You—”

“Doesn’t matter much now, does it? I’m stuck,” he said, his throat catching. “Who are the invaders?”

“Saxons, according to Gwen,” Lancelot said. He handed Merlin the letter. “Their leader is not a Saxon, though, according to the reports.”

“That’s strange.”

“Yeah. Listen, why don’t we both write back this time?”

“Tell Gaius to get a new apprentice, but don’t mention me. I’m going out,” Merlin said, digging his hands into his pockets.

“Where?”

“The tavern, of course,” he said with a cat-like grin. Lancelot’s shoulders drooped and his face transformed into something horrifically pitying. He only squeezed Merlin’s shoulder and slipped past him into the house.

The town of Benwick was quiet, but it had character. Merlin liked it. He’d come upon it by chance once he’d paid for his passage across the great sea and left the port town. His pockets were empty and everything about him surely gave the air of pity and shame and pain. Naturally, the locals had pulled him into the tavern, and by some twist of fate, Lancelot had been there.

The house was for him and Gwen. He’d gone ahead to find it while Gwen stayed back to visit a few old friends, including Hunith in Ealdor, before departing from Camelot and its neighbors indefinitely. Merlin was lucky that Lancelot had his old pallet from his days of traveling and a spare room.

“It’s—an investment,” he had blushed when he’d shown Merlin the room. “Gwen and I aren’t married yet, so we won’t be needing it soon. Don’t worry about using the space.”

“I’ll be gone before you’ll need it,” Merlin had assured him. Unfortunately, he was finding it harder and harder to get himself stable enough to pack up and leave for the open arms of the unknown. The green of the leaves was different in this land. The light had a certain honeyed texture to it that made the spaces between the trees feel cozy. Merlin wondered if there were druids here with whom he could study. He had all the time in the world now, after all, without Arthur to look after.

He planned to return eventually. Arthur wouldn’t last very long without his help. Merlin knew he could get in and out easily to save his royal arse without being noticed. Only, it was a matter of going and feeling that same crushing sensation upon seeing Arthur’s face.

He dreamt of the pyre most nights, even though he knew Arthur would not condemn him to it. At the end of the day, it was not Arthur who would damn him; it would be Uther and his wretched laws and the aftertaste of his horrible Purge—and, in a way, Arthur’s decision to do nothing, just like Morgana had said.

Instead of returning, Merlin went to the tavern. He was starting to understand why Gwaine was so fond of it.

 

\---

 

Arthur was resigned, now. He had no choice but to accept that his men had searched every inch of Camelot for Merlin for months and found not even a scrap of his neckerchief. He could not go into the neighboring countries without risking inciting something dangerous, but he felt in his heart that Merlin was nowhere near him. Merlin was somewhere far, far away, and Arthur hoped he was happy. If his goal had been to injure Arthur—if he had been in league with Morgana all along and it had been some truly elaborate scheme to do him unimaginable harm and break his spirit—well, Merlin hadn’t needed any help from Morgana.

The winter was harsh, but eventually it gave way to spring and new life rising up from the ground. When the weather began to warm, Gwen told him she planned to leave, to return to Lancelot, who awaited her with an empty home in a town called Benwick across the sea. Arthur let her go with Gwaine as her escort—the bastard had been complaining of feeling _confined_ —and another weight settled on his heart. He was glad, at least, that they parted as friends this time.

When Gwen left the second time, Arthur was still sad, only Merlin was not around to hold his hand and help him through. His chambers were empty and pristine and there was no trace of Merlin left anywhere.

_Merlin left._

Each day, Arthur hated his chambers more and more, because the sight was enough to reduce him to shaking limbs and angry laughter, to make him feel like a pitiful, pathetic _girl_ —not unlike Merlin, really, or so he had always said. Merlin was the stronger one in the end. Merlin left, and he obviously felt no need to come back. Perhaps it was not strength but the absence of something against which to fight. Perhaps Merlin did not care enough about him. Perhaps everyone who’d said he’d never leave him, not for anything, was so fucking wrong.

Arthur twisted and punched the wall, and waited for Gwen’s letter announcing her safe return home. He waited a month and a half for it.

When it finally came, he did not get the chance to read it. Just after the courier delivered the letter, Leon entered his chambers. There was blood all over his mail, though he seemed relatively unharmed.

“The citadel is under attack,” he announced. “They’ve only just come out of the Darkling Woods.”

“Saxons?”

“Yes.”

“Will I finally get to meet their mysterious leader?”

“He—he sent a message, sire. It was pinned to Sir Osric’s arm. Just his arm,” Leon said, wincing. “The man claims he already knows you, and he knew your sister.”

“The name, Leon,” Arthur snapped. He strapped on his sword—the one Merlin shown him in the forest stuck in a stone. It seemed like it happened in an entirely different life.

“He calls himself Mordred, sire.”

 

* * *

 

Merlin was trying to wrestle a little girl when he heard their footsteps. He froze, and the little girl—Kendra—snatched the toy out of Merlin’s hands. She squealed at her victory and threw herself at Merlin’s chest. All the air left him on impact and he caught her well enough, but his eyes were glued to the path beyond the clearing where they sat.

“Merlin! Let’s play again!” she demanded.

“Hang on.”

He stood and tried to place her on the tree stump, but she refused to come out his arms, making soft whimpering noises and grabbing at his hair and weathered neckerchief with her tiny hands. Merlin let out an exasperated sigh, much to her amusement.

“You are a thorn in my side,” he said fondly.

“Father says so, too,” Kendra said with an authoritative nod. “Does that mean you can be my father instead?”

Merlin chuckled and hugged her tightly.

“Your mum would hate me for stealing you away,” he said.

“But I want to come fight dragons with you!”

“Now, you can’t do that. You haven’t had training! You need to be a knight to fight dragons.”

“ _You’re_ not a knight,” she complained.

The voices down the path were getting louder, their owners coming closer. Merlin started edging back into the forest.

“No, but I’m different,” said Merlin. “I can protect myself and my friends.”

“But I can too! Look!”

Kendra twisted away from him and pointed at a large rock. She stared long and hard, and Merlin opened his mouth to tell her once again that magic didn’t work like that, but the rock _moved_ —it bloody soared right past them and toward the path where two people were about to be seriously hurt. Merlin stopped the rock without a thought and ran to it, never releasing a now-trembling Kendra.

The rock settled firmly on the grass, as did the dust, and the travelers rose from where they’d thrown themselves down on the road.

Gwaine and Gwen stared at him with little smiles bursting onto their dirty faces.

“Merlin, stop, that hurts,” Kendra whined, slapping her little hands against Merlin’s. Gwen let out a high-pitched sound and threw her arms around him, Kendra and all. Merlin did his best to hug back, but his legs itched to run, to leave, to get away from that bright red cape.

Gwen was saying something, and she was crying, and Gwaine was saying _something_ about Arthur—and then Merlin drew away. He shook his head and wordlessly took off down the path. He put Kendra down at some point.

“Race me?” he asked. She looked up with large green eyes; she could see his sadness, but she nodded.

“I have to practice for when I fight dragons,” she said seriously.

“Not all dragons need to be fought. They’re pretty good most of the time, unless you do something bad to them. Then they get mad.”

“But that’s like people,” she frowned. “Right?”

“Right. Come on,” Merlin said, shooting a glance over his shoulder. He could see Gwen and Gwaine’s heads coming over the top of the hill. “Let’s run before your mum decides not to give me dinner tonight.”

Kendra was flying before Merlin could get his tired body to even move, but he ran and ran, found energy he didn’t think he still had. It had been a very long few months, after all. They made it back to the tavern where Kendra’s mother, the barkeep, Laine, was waiting for them. Kendra started rattling off everything they’d done that day the moment she made it to her mother’s arms. Merlin settled at his usual table and watched on, trying to feel as happy as he usually did, but failing.

That was why by the time Gwaine, Gwen, and Lancelot caught up to him several hours later, he was deep in his cups, curled in a chair by the fire, humming softly an old tune his mother used to sing to him during some annual festival. Merlin didn’t remember which one anymore.

“Merlin,” Gwen started. She sounded like she was waiting, so Merlin looked up and gave her a questioning look. She looked ready to fall apart. “Merlin, you have to go back to Camelot.”

“Gwen—,” Lancelot said.

“No, please. I won’t beat around it,” she said. “Arthur’s lost without you, and so is the rest of Camelot.”

“I was just a servant.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“All right, maybe not, but I don’t want to die. Then I can’t do my job,” Merlin said sullenly.

“What’s that, exactly?” Gwaine asked, sitting in the chair across him with a tankard of ale. He was no longer dressed in his mail and cape; he looked like the old Gwaine from his days of aimlessly roaming Albion.

“Protecting that prat.”

“You can’t do that if you’re not in Camelot,” Gwen said.

“Sure I can,” Merlin said. He paused to drain his tankard from half-full to empty. “Look, law’s th’ law. Arthur isn’t gonna want t’ kill me. So I’m here, so he doesn’t have to. I’m _protecting_ him.”

Gwen sank to her knees and pried the tankard out of his hands and covered them with her own instead.

“I’ve been there all this time, Merlin, and I’ve never seen Arthur so… hurt,” she said. “Whatever you think you’re doing by staying here, it’s not working.”

“’m not staying,” Merlin said, heaving himself to his feet. There were hands on him and his head spun, but eventually he made it back to the bar. “Laine?” he called.

“No more, Merlin,” she warned. “You’ve gotta stop this.”

“You’re not really my mum,” he muttered.

“Then go home to yours.”

Merlin looked up sharply. “How did you—?”

“Lancelot has been a friend of mine longer than you have,” Laine said. “Now, go let your friends talk some sense into you, or I’m banning you from the tavern. That means no looking after Kendra, either.”

Merlin walked back over to the fire where they were waiting. He sat with a huff and crossed his arms.

“I don’t like you guys.”

“Sure, Merlin. Now why don’t you tell us why you’re not back in Camelot right now?”

“I just did!”

“Well, you’ve got it wrong. The princess is actually acting like a princess. Looks like he’s gonna cry any minute most days, or like he’s turned to stone,” Gwaine snorted. “Made it real hard to fight him and win during practice.”

“The magic’s not a problem for any of us,” Gwen said. “I don’t think anyone who saw minded in the least.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, if that’s what—”

“It’s who I am. I was born with it. I can’t be ashamed of that,” Merlin snapped. “I could never be. I _won’t._ ”

“Okay, okay.”

“I’m going home,” Merlin said, rising.

“But—”

“Just… let me be, alright? We’ll talk tomorrow.” 

Merlin gave them a tiny wave and left. The air, now warm and sweet with early summer, didn’t do much to clear his head. By the time he made it back to the house, though, he was lucid enough to take all of his things and leave without stopping once to look back.

If his feet took him to the salty air of the sea after a few days of traveling, Merlin did nothing to alter his course.

 

\---

 

It had been a truly good day for Arthur. They’d beaten back the Saxons, finally, and broken the siege. Mordred was nowhere to be seen, but Arthur knew it was only temporary. He wanted to face him, Morgana’s last ally, apparently out for vengeance as well as to finish her work.

On the other hand, however, Arthur had spent most of the day with the council, and he finally won his case: the ban on magic would be lifted. They all agreed that it would have to be gradual and Arthur would need to give many addresses and find benevolent sorcerers to show the people of Camelot that it was nothing to fear and that his father had been misguided. It would take a long time, and it would have to wait until the war was over.

Arthur wanted a quick end to it all, before Mordred could use his magic for evil and further sour the bad taste in the mouth of Camelot. So when they beat back the Saxons and they retreated back beyond the border, Arthur kept the patrols on their heels. Word came when they started to advance again, this time settling in a large plain not far from the border.

“Mordred is calling you out,” Leon mused.

“Then we shall go to him, and we’ll end this, once and for all,” Arthur said. “Camlann will be their end.”

The knights dispersed from the council chambers. Arthur started making way to his chambers when Gaius stopped him.

“Sire. A word?”

Arthur slowed and turned to him. “Certainly.”

“It’s about Merlin, sire.”

“What about him?”

Gaius sighed. It was something he did often around Arthur now, usually if Merlin came up in conversation. Gaius was fond of doing that, much to Arthur’s irritation.

“There are some things regarding him and Mordred that you do not know. I… feel it is my responsibility to inform you, since Merlin doesn’t seem able to do it himself.”

“Then I’ll do without it,” Arthur said stiffly.

“Sire. Please.”

“If Merlin is supposed to tell me, then he’ll have to do it. I won’t hear it from anyone else.”

“It is a matter of life or death, sire. I implore you to see reason,” Gaius said. Arthur shook his head.

“If it’s that bloody important, Merlin should be here to tell me and protect me, since that’s what you say he was doing all that time.”

“It’s what Merlin would have wanted.”

“He’s not dead, for heaven’s sake! If he wants me to know, he’d better tell me in person.”

Arthur turned on his heel and swept away. He felt Gaius staring hard enough to drive daggers through his back, but Arthur could not bring himself to care. His heart pounded louder than his steadily quickening footsteps on the castle floors. He barely made it in time to his chambers before all the energy and strength in him was sapped away.

Every time Arthur thought he was closer to getting away from _managing_ and finally just _being okay_ , something like this happened. Merlin—the bloody idiot—wormed his way out of the recesses and infected his body like the plague. It stayed with him. It was killing him. Yet Merlin was the only cure for this affliction at the end of the day.

Arthur stopped trying to understand why he’d stayed away for so long. He had been _so sure_ Merlin would come crawling back by now.

But Arthur was still alone, feeling like he’d lost a limb—hell, like he’d amputated it himself with that sword from the stone.

He released a slow, stuttering breath and rested his head against the wall.

Arthur knew he wasn’t angry anymore. The anger had long gone; his head had cleared and it was easy to see now: Arthur needed him back more than anything, now more than ever on the eve of what could be the battle to decide Camelot’s fate, but Merlin did not want to come back to him, not even now. Arthur had messed things up irreparably between them, and he knew he could never forgive himself for it.

The light caught the unopened letter on his desk, illuminating the yellowed parchment. Arthur slowly stood up and dragged his sword across the room to the desk. He deposited it on the surface and took up the letter instead. He smiled at the sight of Gwen’s familiar handwriting. He cracked the red seal and unfolded it.

Upon reading the first few lines, he nearly dropped the letter.

Arthur read through the letter three, four, five times, just to be sure, and then a sixth time. He ran to the hall, flagged down a servant, and yelled for his horse to be prepared. One of the knights passing by looked at him curiously, and Arthur said he had an errand to run.

“Should one of us—?”

“No. I only need to go clear my head.”

Arthur clutched to Gwen’s letter like it was his lifeline. Only, perhaps, it was true.

Arthur was gathering his things when Leon came barging in, demanding explanations. He handed him the letter and watched his face smooth over and relax in shock.

“You understand, don’t you?”

“I do, sire, but Mordred’s men will be off of the plains of Camlann if we do not go meet them soon. The men are ready at any time.”

Arthur paused.

“Are you certain?” he asked. “Is there no way to prolong this?”

“I would not advise waiting.”

“The men—we’ve only just cornered them. The siege hasn’t been over even for a week. We must—”

“If you say fight, they will fight, regardless of how tired they are,” Leon said. “We are all devoted to Camelot, and to you.”

“I need you to be full strength and able to defend Camelot, not just devoted to her,” Arthur snorted. “No. Tell the men to take a week to see their families and rest. Tell them to see Gaius. You too, Leon.”

“I’m fine, sire.”

Arthur stared pointedly at the bandages poking out from under his mail. Leon huffed.

“Give the word, Leon. We’ll depart a week from tomorrow at dawn.”

Leon bowed curtly and failed to hide the pained wince when he rolled his shoulder heaving the door open. Leon turned back.

“Arthur. Be careful.”

“I always am.”

Leon did not look convinced, but he let Arthur be. Arthur finished packing. He saw his horse waiting for him outside in the courtyard. He considered Leon’s words over and over, but there was no other option.

 _I have to go_.

It was simple as that.

He scribbled out a note to Gaius, informing him of what he’d learned from Gwen’s letter, and left it for him on his cluttered workbench in his chambers. Arthur looked into Merlin’s old room before departing. It was as white and cold and bare as ever. His determination surged. His fingers twisted in the worn fabric of the neckerchief in his pocket; it was the first time in a long time he’d allowed himself to pull it out from within his wardrobe, thinking it would only hurt him more, but it was a comforting presence.

Arthur took off.

 

\---

 

Merlin was close to the border when he saw the massive camp stretched out across the valley with its black flags and strange, angry men flitting between the tents. Somewhere within the camp, Merlin felt a familiar presence that frightened him to the bone.

 _Hello, Emrys_.

He only turned halfway around before behind thrown off his feet. His head hit something hard and jagged. His head spun, but he made to stand up, ignoring the searing pain and blood dripping into his eyes. A hand—a real, non-magical, very human hand—clamped around his throat and squeezed, crushed, until Merlin knew no more.

 

* * *

  

The air was cool for summer and charged with the strength of the oncoming storm. The skies were a heavy dark gray. Arthur cut through the landscape in a blur with the precision of a blade, making the weary summer day bleed Camelot red. 

He stopped for the night near Camelot’s border in a small inn. He ate dinner in the corner of the local tavern and paid the workers handsomely for his privacy. Arthur dreaded the long night ahead, but he did not dare risk riding out alone with the Saxons within spitting distance. He felt the weight of the fragile letter in his pocket, resting on his chest like a slab of rock. He wanted to _move_ , but the night and the war were in his way.

Arthur tuned into a conversation between three burly men seated near him around the fire. They were discussing, unsurprisingly, the Saxons encroaching upon their borders and what the war would mean for them. They were worried about their crops and their livestock and what the army would require when they came through. They worried about the protection they’d receive, since they lived so close to where the fighting would happen, and whether they should simply leave before it started. They all agreed it was impractical, between their families and the homes that they had spent so long building. Arthur listened to them with a tight grip on his tankard, and took note of it all, for when he returned to Camelot.

Then, at an off moment, a fourth man entered the tavern and their conversation. He looked entirely foreign—very Saxon, in fact. He spoke brokenly in their language and with such a noticeable accent that the entire tavern went still until the men rose with their weapons. Arthur rose slowly, but he did not move for the knives at his hip. He watched fear bloom on the stranger’s face.

“I—I leave them,” he stammered. “I cannot fight you.”

“You’re a deserter,” Arthur said calmly. All eyes turned to him. Recognition flickered on some of their faces, but no one moved or made any other indication of knowing who he was. The man must have realized that Arthur was important, for his posture straightened and his expression evened out into something less emotional and more respectful. “Clear out. I want to speak to this man alone.”

The patrons slowly trickled out of the tavern into the town. Arthur waited until their thick cloud of whispers dissipated to repeat his statement.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I am.”

“Why have you left your army?"

“They fight and it is… bad. No good. No right, with the,” the man stopped, and waved his hands, searching for words, only to say with a helpless slump of his shoulders, “magic boy. He is not for us. He fights for evil.”

“What is his name?”

“Mordred, sir.”

“Why does he fight, then?”

“Because of his friend,” said the deserter. “She spoke… words of magic. Made every fighter want to fight. She is dead.”

“The name,” Arthur demanded. Arthur kicked his chair aside and stood across from the man.

“Morgana Pendragon, sir. She who was to be Camelot’s queen. She is dead.”

“And what does Mordred want?”

“The man who killed her.”

“Is this why you left? Because he’s turned this war into a fight for revenge? Is he using soldier like you to find that man?”

The man shook his head. “No,” he said. “I leave because he find him, and that man is strong magic and _good_ , sir, and Mordred wants death on him. I came to warn Camelot.”

Arthur dug his nails into his palms to keep steady. He took a deep breath.

“Do you know who I am?” Arthur asked.

“You are king, sir.”

He said it as though it was the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. Arthur felt his lips start to smile. The deserter looked slightly confused.

“Thank you for your service. You’ve been a great help to me, and to my people. I’ll ensure you will face no harm and you will be permitted to stay here in Camelot.”

The man dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground before Arthur’s feet. He was speaking in his native tongue, but Arthur did not need to know the words to feel his gratitude. He touched his shoulder and the man stood up.

“Tell me where I can find them and then you may go,” said Arthur.

“Will you make that man live?”

“I swear, I will,” Arthur said solemnly. His throat was very dry, all of a sudden, and the weight on his chest seemed infinitely heavier. 

The man gave Arthur directions. Arthur repeated it back to him and carved it onto his heart. He thanked the man again and told the innkeeper down the road to give the deserter his room on his way out of the town. Arthur left his tired horse behind; the camp where Mordred had Merlin was hardly three miles west.

When Arthur reached the place, he stood on the hill and looked out at the mass of dark tents. One tent was illuminated not far from the base of the hill. From within, there were screams of pain, followed by a soft, smooth voice occasionally speaking in an almost loving manner. Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword— _Merlin’s sword_ —and slowly made his way into the enemy camp.

 

\---

 

“Emrys,” Mordred said, slithering around him for the tenth time, trailing the tip of the knife through the same line he’d drawn around Merlin’s neck. Merlin did his best not to jerk away from his cold fingers. “Emrys, you disappoint me.”

Mordred plunged the knife into Merlin’s hand; the tip lodged itself in the arm of the chair to which he was tied. He twisted it ever so slightly. Merlin did not realize how much he had been screaming until he ran out of air and his voice hurt so much he thought his throat was bleeding. It would not have been the only source of free-flowing blood on him.

“We could have done great things,” he said softly. Mordred pulled the knife out and waited until Merlin finished screaming. “You, and me, and Morgana. We are _kin_ , and you turned your back on us. You failed us.”

“My job is to protect Arthur,” he said raggedly. He was starting to have trouble breathing; the sheer volume of blood caking onto his arms and seeping into the enchanted bindings around him was enough to make him lightheaded.

“Yes, and you have done well,” Mordred said, “but you will have little to show for it. What was it all for if you did not earn anything with your work? Where is your great and just king? He crushes the skulls of magic users with the heel of his boot, just like his father.”

“Uther was Morgana’s father, too,” Merlin stated.

“Morgana was perfect for the crown. She would have saved us all. She loved her brethren, unlike you. She wanted to make up for what Uther had done to people like us.”

“You think she would have given you justice.”

“I know it,” Mordred said proudly.

“She couldn’t, Mordred. She was lost. Morgana’s goodness died long ago. She wanted revenge, not justice,” Merlin said. Mordred cut him off with a slice of a knife to the inside of his thigh.

“It would have been just,” he said simply. Mordred looked at Merlin with a terrible sadness and unfathomable anger in his eyes. He was so young, to Merlin, but he still feared what he could do. “Why don’t you free yourself, Emrys? Are you not as great as the prophecies foretold?”

“Look, I am sorry I’m not the man you grew up hearing stories about,” Merlin said, “but I _am_ going to help Arthur make this kingdom great, and it will be good for people like us.”

“You truly believe all this will pay off,” he said, bemused, just as Morgana had been. He shook his head and looked terribly sad again, as though Merlin were a child who simply did not understand something pure and fundamental. “Do you truly think you will win your prize?”

“What prize?”

“Your king,” Mordred smirked. “Morgana always suspected. It does not surprise me that she took you instead of the serving girl. Do not hate me for saying this, but people like us will never find a place of love in the hearts of men like Arthur Pendragon. You must know this.”

“I have other reasons to hate you,” Merlin said coldly, his voice torn and weary. It hurt to breathe in any way but shallow gasps. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if he loves me. I’ll serve him until the end of my days.”

“Is that why you ran from him when he learned your secret?”

Merlin pressed his lips together.

“I did it to protect him. He would have had to kill me.”

Mordred was listening with a look of wonder on his face. For a moment, he still looked like the innocent, sickly boy who had hidden from Arthur with Merlin behind the screen in Morgana’s chambers all those years ago. He was still very much a boy, but it did not mean he did not understand the world.

“You’ll go unmarked in death as you have in life, Emrys.”

“Maybe I will, but I can make it so that others won’t in the future,” Merlin pressed. He leaned closer until he and Mordred were nearly nose-to-nose. Sweat rolled down the side of his face. “You need to let me go.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he said.

“Because I killed Morgana?” Merlin asked stiffly. He took a shaky breath. “She left me no choice.”

“Now? Or when you first betrayed her? She told me all about the things the great Emrys has done, even if she never knew what you were.”

“I—I’m not the _great_ anything!” Merlin burst. He coughed and tasted blood on his sandy tongue. The blade of another knife pressed against Merlin’s throat and he stilled. He forced his body to relax back against the chair. Pain flared in the wounds on his torso. “I’m only doing my best.”

Mordred shook his head.

“Not anymore. It is over,” Mordred said softly. He dug the knife into Merlin’s neck. Merlin gasped at the release of blood. He touched Merlin’s face gently, almost lovingly, and stilled his squirming. He let the knife drop and hesitate in the middle of Merlin’s chest. Merlin met his eyes—sad, for a moment, but quickly replaced by a flare of fury not unlike that of Morgana. The madness was less pronounced, but it was there, and it was Morgana’s alone. His face twisted into a helpless smile.

“Goodbye, Emrys,” he said reverently, as though it were truly an honor to kill him.

Merlin closed his eyes.

 

\---

 

Arthur froze at the sound of Merlin raising his voice. He hovered outside the tent and strained his ears, his sword steady in his hands. Mordred said something quietly to Merlin. Then, there was a gargled shout and a heavy thud. Mordred loosed a horrible, horrified sound.

Arthur found himself inside the tent before he could even process what he had heard. The sight before him was enough to knock his feet out from under him, to halt his heart, to cut his stomach right out of his body. Arthur felt sick at the display of blood on the chair, around its legs, around Merlin’s still shaking body. His face was ashen and his eyes were bright and unfocused. The blood coming out of the gaping wound on his chest coated him like a heavy blanket, the way he relaxed under it and settled into the ground.

Mordred turned Merlin over onto his back and made a strangled noise.

“Gods, no. What—what have—”

He started speaking very fast in the language of the Old Religion, running his hands over Merlin’s body. Arthur dragged himself slowly to Merlin’s quiet—god, why was he so quiet now, of all times?—and still form. His eyes were fluttering open and shut now almost as infrequently as his chest rose and fell. Mordred did not seem to notice Arthur’s presence. Arthur hardly felt his body, only his sword, which he set aside when he knelt next to Mordred wordlessly. The spells still streamed from Mordred’s lips, but any progress was too slow. Nothing could stop the blood now that it wanted out of Merlin’s body.

Merlin’s eyes opened and found Arthur. They slid into focus only for a moment.

“Merlin—stay with me. Please,” Arthur croaked. He took Merlin’s hand—it was so light and _frail_ —and squeezed it hard. He faintly squeezed back and Merlin’s lips might have smiled, but Arthur may have imagined it. He might have simply wanted to see a smile on his face before his eyes shut and Merlin’s hand released Arthur and fell out of his grip slackened by sick shock.

“No.”

Mordred rose slowly. Arthur followed, sword out. Mordred stared at Merlin’s body, shaking his head.

“I—I never—I didn’t want—”

“You killed him,” Arthur said quietly. Mordred turned and looked at Arthur with a look of true surprise.

“Arthur.”

“Why have you done this?” Arthur demanded. His voice was unsteady, but his sword arm was not. Mordred didn’t even move when Arthur pressed its blade against his pale skin. His eyes were wide and afraid.

“He—it was all I could do.”

Mordred twisted fast, lunging for his sword discarded on the other side of the tent. Arthur dove and caught him by the shoulder, plunging his sword through Mordred’s back and clear out the other side. Arthur heard nothing of his pleas and whimpers. He retracted the sword and let Mordred’s body drop.

He turned back, entertaining the faint, silly hope that killing the druid boy would bring Merlin back, but Merlin was still a corpse, not his friend, not alive, nothing but a heap of skin and bones without a trace of _Merlin_ left in him.

Arthur pulled his gloves off, to feel him for real. Merlin was cold. Merlin hated being cold. Arthur took his cape off and wrapped him up in it. The fresh blood blended well with the Camelot red. Arthur knelt there a long time, considering calling for help, but knowing he had no voice left. He waited for his eyes to dry before taking Merlin, never once letting him slip from his arms, and leaving the camp. The Saxons were out and saw him leave, but they all looked dazed and confused; they did nothing to stop a grieving man, even an enemy.

 

* * *

 

Arthur rode in silence with Merlin’s body slung across his horse. The beautiful, quiet lake was two days’ ride away from the Saxon camp. Mist hung heavily over the surface of the water when Arthur arrived just after dawn. He descended from his horse and removed Merlin from the horse. He unwrapped his ruined cloak and laid him out on the ground. Water lapped up against Merlin’s side and Arthur’s leg where they rested on the shore for a long time; the tides were calling to them.

Arthur found a small boat down the shore. He filled it with branches and leaves and flowers—all those soft and pretty things of nature that Merlin always loved. Arthur blinked and failed to keep tears from flowing when he put Merlin in the boat with his cloak as his shroud.

After a moment’s thought, he got in as well and pushed them off of the shore. He simply was not ready to let him go, so Arthur figured he could stay with Merlin a little longer. Camelot would be safe; Camelot could wait a little longer. Merlin needed him now.

The lake was definitely magical, Arthur decided, when the waters started pulling them out into the open water without Arthur using an oar. He looked down at Merlin and extracted his old neckerchief from his pocket. Arthur tied it loosely around his neck; it seemed he had lost his own. He covered Merlin’s folded hands with his own; the wound was hidden with the way he was positioned.

Arthur froze. He moved Merlin’s hands aside and pulled the folds of Merlin’s bloodstained shirt aside. He swallowed and looked around.

“Is—this is a joke,” he whispered.

The wound was gone. All that remained was a rather nasty scar, but the skin was closed and even had a slightly less unhealthy tinge to it. In fact, upon further inspection, Merlin looked more and more alive as they got closer to the isle in the middle of the lake.

Arthur watched in wonder as the water that had splashed into the boat glistened and shone on Merlin’s skin in an entirely supernatural way and took away the blood and closed the open wounds. When the boat hit the shore, Merlin looked almost whole. Arthur scooped him out of the boat and set him on the soft grass. The mist was even heavier here, and the air flowed like honey.

“It might take a while.”

Arthur jumped to his feet, sword out, and looked around. He _knew_ her voice, but he could not see her anywhere.

“Morgana. Where are you?”

“Here,” she said, stepping out between waves of fog. She looked kind and tired, as she had years ago when Merlin first came to Camelot, but less haunted, more at peace. Arthur did not lower his sword. “Come now, is that any way to greet your sister?”

“How are you here?”

“I am dead, thanks to Merlin,” she said, with a curt nod toward his body. Morgana knelt next to him and brushed his hair off his forehead.

“Don’t,” Arthur said, aiming to prick her back with the sword, but its blade only moved through her like air. She stood up, the blade cutting through her torso, and looked at him sadly.

“I have no quarrel with you now,” she said. “Do us both a favor and put that thing away.”

Arthur sheathed the sword.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“He’s coming back,” Morgana replied. “Merlin is… very powerful. The druids call him Emrys. He cannot die this easily.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s _dead_.”

Morgana reached for Arthur and stopped short. She pulled her hand back.

“I’m sorry this happened,” she said.

“You did this.”

“I did. I deserved the crown, but I deserved this as well. What I became—it was Merlin’s fault, but not wholly, as much as I thought it was.”

“What are you on about?”

“Ask him. Give him some time, but I think he’ll want to tell you everything,” Morgana said with a twinkle in her eye. Clearly she knew more than Arthur did, which rubbed him wrong.

“What did you say the druids called him?”

“Emrys. He’s a figure of their prophecies, just as you are. The Once and Future King,” she said almost bitterly. Morgana sat down and let her gown settle around her in piles of dark green silk.

“I’ve heard that before.”

“From Merlin, I’d guess,” Morgana said, plucking at blades of dewy grass. “Apparently you two will bring magic back to Camelot and unite all of Albion. That’s what the priestesses tell me.”

“What priestesses?”

She shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand. Avalon is a curious place.”

“Avalon?”

She waved at the space around them.

“We rest here, if our souls get to this place,” she said. “Merlin did me a great service, sending me off like that. I’ve learned so much since then. I understand a lot more than I thought I did.”

“You don’t seem so… angry,” Arthur admitted.

“I’ve cooled down a little,” she said tensely. “But only a little. I have all of eternity to find my peace.”

“How long will I have to wait for Merlin to come back?” Arthur asked. He felt so bare and exposed, saying these things to Morgana, who only smirked and threw a handful of wet grass at his grimy armor. The blades stuck.

“How long would you wait?”

“A long time.”

“What about Camelot?”

“I—I’d go, but I’d still be waiting. I’d come back,” Arthur said, knowing the promises he made were true. “If that was what it took to bring Merlin back, I’d do it.”

Morgana chuckled. “He told me you were lovers. Was he lying?”

Arthur blushed furiously. Her eyes widened.

“No! No. We weren’t. It’s—it’s not like that,” Arthur said helplessly. “It’s more than that.”

“Well, you’ll get your chance soon,” Morgana said briskly. She stood up and wiped the wetness off her dress. It was unstained and pristine. The physical world simply did not touch her while it left Arthur bruised and confused and drenched in lake water and dew. Morgana started to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Arthur called out.

“Be patient, brother. I’ll come back. Only wait a little longer,” she said with a twist of a smile. She turned away and faded into the fog.

Arthur edged closer to Merlin’s still lifeless body. He looked better, but he was still dead. There was still no Merlin left in him. But it was a start. Slowly, Arthur started to feel like he could breathe again. He did not dare actually do it, for fear that it would make Merlin disappear; he was so thin and barely visible, barely present, even now, but he was every bit the fiery, kind, good friend Arthur loved. The memories were strong enough. Arthur focused on them, desperately hoping that if he felt them strongly enough and made it plain—which he had never done with Merlin when he was alive; he’d always shouted and yelled at him but he’d never made it clear just how important he was—that maybe, _maybe_ , he would come back faster.

He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“I can be patient,” Arthur decided.

He dug into the muddy shore and held onto Merlin’s hand like a lifeline. His armor lay forgotten on the perpetually dewy grass, rusting; Merlin was going to have a terrible time polishing it when he came back. Sitting in just his tunic and breeches, Arthur was ready to wait. So he waited. Together, they watched the sun rise over the distant treeline and break through the layers of fog.

He counted the sunrises, not the sunsets, because they marked a new day in which Merlin could come back, rather than the end of a day in which he didn’t. It was better for both of them that way.

 

\---

 

Merlin woke slowly, as though from a long, uncomfortable sleep. He felt like he’d fought through nightmares for the entire night he’d been asleep, and that waking up was the relief, rather than the sleep itself. He opened his eyes to blinding golden brightness. Arthur was above him, looking out beyond them, so Merlin had a perfect view of his jawline—since when did he stop shaving?—from below and the illumination of his hair in the sunlight. His ears drank in his familiar voice talking on and on. He sounded tired, Merlin realized, and he was clearly complaining.

“Prat,” Merlin tried to say. His voice failed him and it came out like a gargled cough.

Arthur stopped.

“Merlin?” he said, his eyes wide and more fearful than Merlin had ever seen them. He stared back and blinked once, slowly. Arthur touched his bare fingers to Merlin’s neck and pressed down on the pulse point with clinical precision, just like Gaius taught him so many years ago. “Merlin,” he exhaled. Arthur burst into a smile bright enough to put the summer sun to shame.

Merlin sat up, fighting through the pain and aches in his body until he was upright. He faced away from the sun, but Arthur still shone in the light in all his glory, even with dark circles around his eyes.

“You look terrible,” Merlin finally said.

“You look worse.”

He smiled and looked down, then away. He caught a glimpse of Morgana hovering in the mist down the shore. Merlin stilled.

“I was dead,” he remembered.

“Not really, apparently,” Arthur said crisply. “You’re back, now.”

“I… am, I guess,” Merlin frowned. The memories came back in a flood. “Mordred—”

“Dead, for good,” Arthur said. Merlin didn’t ask more. He simply nodded and said,

“I’m back now. That’s what matters, right?”

“Yeah,” Arthur said. Then, he did the last thing Merlin expected he would do: he pulled Merlin into a tight hug and started to cry into his shoulder. Merlin held him for a long time; it didn’t matter how confused he was, not if Arthur needed him, like this or in any other way.

“I’m here. I’ll always be here,” Merlin said softly once Arthur had calmed down.

“You weren’t though. You left for so long,” he said, pulling back.

“I came back!”

“You got caught,” Arthur said. “You’re a cabbagehead.”

“ _Cabbagehead?_ That’s my word!”

“Too bad,” Arthur said. He wiped a few stray tears away. “I’m sorry. Behavior like that was out of line.”

“It wasn’t,” Merlin said, reaching forward to remove a tear Arthur had missed. “It’s okay.”

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said, meeting Merlin’s eye with a curious look in his eye. “I never—I was so stupid. I never thought I could, but when I did—”

“Shh. It doesn’t matter now. I’m back, and I’m never leaving again,” Merlin said. He absently stroked Arthur’s cheekbone with his thumb, still cupping his face. “That is, unless you have to behead me when we get back to Camelot.”

“I never would have. I’d have found a way.”

“The law—”

“Damn the law. The laws have been changing this whole time. You’d have known that if you’d stayed.”

Merlin’s hand fell away. He looked out at where Morgana was still hovering, watching.

“I’ve been trying to repeal the ban all this time. Now that Mordred is dead and the war’s been averted, we can go ahead with it,” Arthur said, sounding calmer now. “I want you to come back and be my advisor and the court sorcerer.”

Merlin looked at him sharply.

“Arthur. You need to think this through.”

“I have,” he said sharply. “It’s been months since you’ve left, and it’s been a whole week since Mordred effectively killed you in front of me. I’ve had plenty of time to think and I want you to come home, damn it. I want you at my side. I’ll give you anything and everything you want; just—trust me.”

Merlin blinked rapidly, his eyes burning horribly all of a sudden.

“I trust you with my life.”

“So that’s why you left then?”

“I left to spare you the decision of having you killed. I was trying to help,” Merlin said. “Why doesn’t anyone understand that?”

“Because it _didn’t help_ , you complete idiot.”

Merlin laughed weakly. “I guess not. Sorry.”

“You’ll be sorry by the time I’m done with you,” Arthur grumbled. He stood up slowly and stretched. “Come on. Everyone’s waiting.”

“Who?”

“Well, your mother, for one. She’ll have my head if I don’t bring you home soon, king or not,” Arthur snorted.

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Merlin conceded. He tried to stand, but he found that his body was still too weak to move more than in small jerks. Arthur gripped him at his armpits and heaved him to his feet. It took a lot out of him, and Merlin ended up leaning heavily against Arthur for support.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Merlin—”

Merlin drew back just enough to look at Arthur’s face. His eyes were wide and scared again, and his grip on Merlin’s body was a shade tighter than necessary. It made sense to Merlin, all of a sudden, how easy it had been for Morgana to hurt Arthur by inadvertently driving Merlin away.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Arthur finally said in one small exhale.

“You’re a clotpole, you know?”

“I am n—nngh!”

Merlin closed the gap between them and pressed his lips against Arthur’s, silencing him properly. It took him a moment to get over the shock, but then he was kissing back, and neither of them seemed to care that their lips were too dry and they were shaking and perhaps there were a few tears shed. But it was all too much at once. Arthur drew back and rested his forehead against Merlin’s.

“We’ll be okay,” Merlin said softly. “We’ll work all this out.”

“I know. Now, let’s go home.”

They got into the boat. They looked back and saw Morgana on the shore, a vision in emerald silk, watching them go. Then, they faced the rising sun in the direction of Camelot’s shining white turrets, and many more sunrises to come. 


End file.
